


Rebel, Rebel

by Pictsies



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, PRATCHETT Terry - Works
Genre: Angst, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fallen Angel Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 11:48:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pictsies/pseuds/Pictsies
Summary: Six months after the end of the world, Crowley goes for his daily sojourn to the bookshop.  On this occasion, it is empty.  The Angel is nowhere to be found.  A missing angel, help from two unexpected quarters, and a besotted demon.  A new Fallen One.





	Rebel, Rebel

Six months after the end of the world…

A pause on the doorstep. Just a moment to collect himself. A forehead presses against a door’s window pane, a hand on the door handle. A breath. And another. Just one moment before the slow-circle dance of six millennia resumes. A moment to quiet that all-too-traitorous heart in this body. It is defective, must be. Surely the humans don’t feel this pain, this sweet agony so keenly. A breath, and the demon enters the bookshop.  
“Angel, sorry I’m late,” he calls, shutting the door fast behind his slender frame against the chill of the January mid-day, “Had a devil of a time picking someplace new.” They had seen one another each and every day since the Not-Ending. Crowley had called it that once, while the angel sampled gelato in Glasgow of all places. “Really, my dear, it seems you always give things their good and true name.” The Renaissance, the Dark Ages…yes, Crowley had named a few epochs in his time. Aziraphale had smiled, all full of brightness and sunshine warm, despite the soft vanilla cream he had so happily devoured. The radiance reminded Crowley of the day he, so utterly besotted after basking in the angel’s Grace, had slipped Master Shakespeare a few lines to commemorate the occasion of their meeting at The Globe. And it had become that damned balcony scene. How many songs, sonnets, novels had he inspired hoping bookish Aziraphale would see and realize these words, this endless longing was all for him? Demon he was, demon he would always be, and he could not say those words, not directly. His thoughts, always precariously balanced on the tip of his tongue, threatened to spill out, as they did every day. “Please, listen, listen to this song as we go today, angel, and do not dismiss it for its newness. Imagine how I spent time with the wordsmith, how he formed my poor lines into prose set to a soft tune. Before Lou Reed’s voice changes to Mr. Mercury’s in a fortnight. Linger on. Listen. Listen and understand how I’ve shown you my feelings, over and over, time and again. Saving you from yourself, as you saved me in a garden so long ago.”,  


He turned in a circle in the center of the shop. “Angel?! Hurry up, it’s a bit of a drive.” Silence answered. Dust motes floated in the few sunbeams the foggy windows allowed to pass. The books were as they should be, a white cup used only for the dark cocoa Aziraphale favored sat undisturbed on the roll-top desk. Still warm to the touch. Crowley reached out, not with hands, but with his mind and heart and true being, searching. He could not feel the presence of the angel, all golden shine and hesitant and unsure. Perhaps he had stepped out for a quick trip to the market? Unlikely at this time of the day. Their regular meeting time had become the hour before noon each and every day since the Not-Ending. 

So he sat. And he waited.

No word came, no shining light entered the shop. The silence did not stir. An hour. Two. At three he rose and began to pace. At four he began checking his mobile. The number marked Aziraphale called the shop, as it always had. The angel refused to enter this age and carry a telephone in his pocket as others did. It was endearing how he clung to the old ways, except at times like this. The fifth hour passed, who was counting, certainly not him, great big bad demon that he was. He was angry, he told himself in a small voice, not afraid. Dusk approached, lighting the sky above London in streaks of the colors the angel said reminded him of fresh peaches. Orange and amber and yellow and pink, streaming across the clouds and sky as the sun went to its rest. Arise fair sun, and kill the envious moon.

He didn’t know how he had dozed off, returning to his seat on the overstuffed couch. It was an odd reaction to the dread coiled in his chest. That horrid sofa, how it formed to his own shape after so many visits, terrible thing really, he should just buy a new one. Sure, angel, tartan, but it will be new. But he allowed his eyes to close again. Surely some news will come, surely. He’ll come here first. Not to my flat, maybe to the Shadwell’s cottage. The angel enjoyed his visits with the new Mrs. Marjorie Shadwell. Sipping tea and chatting while Crowley and Shadwell groused in the side garden. Maybe that’s where he had gone, silly thing, without thinking to call.  
It was the smell that awoke him. The smell that awoke that trace of Hell’s fire still coursing through his veins. The fire roiled, flickering upwards through his hands, his heart, his head. Sulfur, ash, chemical, blazing toxic flames. The scent of someone who had very recently been through Perdition. His golden eyes flashed open, and found Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, gazing at him with something akin to curiosity. He sought his armor with a patting hand, and rapidly pressed his dropped sunglasses back to their usual place. 

“My Lord Beelzebub”, he coyly whispered while rapidly rising to his full height, “it is an unexpected pleasure. I have not seen you since…hmmm, the trial?” The demon lord nodded. “Crowley. This is not a szzzocial call.” Noting his intense gaze, the demon quickly added, “It is not an attempt to harm…” zzzzzzir motioned in small circles, as if considering the word choice carefully. Crowley nodded, but remained standing. “Fancy a drink, m’lord?” Beelzebub declined with a sharp shake of zzzzzzir head, peering intently at a clear container of sparkling water on the worn side table. 

“I szzzhall not be staying long. I come with a meszzzszzzage. From the Dark Counczzzil. From our Dark Lord.” Crowley raised his brows. “Not My Dark Lord anymore, but, now, I’m intrigued,” he growled. “Please, do go on.”  
“Former Demon of Hell Crowley, this is a, well, courteszzzy. I come to keep the peaczzze, and to keep you far away from the Nine Realmszzz.” Beelzebub adjusted zzzzzzir position, shifting from one side to another, eyes downcast, as a small child would, when caught misbehaving. “Our Dark Lord received word, from szzzomeone Above.” Zzzzzzir’s eyes lifted towards the ceiling. “Yes?” Crowley, growing less patient. What if the angel returned with zzzzzzir here? Those flies near the precious first editions? Especially the Wildes? Perish the thought. 

“Crowley”, Beelzebub made a small noise unbefitting a member of the Council, and more akin to a small mammal caught by a great serpent. Crowley knew this sound intimately. “Crowley, we were told, uh, told, there iszzz a trial thiszzz day. Up there.” Zzzzzzir pointed, again, with a raised forefinger this time, towards the ceiling. “We were told there would be a new Fallen One arriving before the dawn, to, to look up and be ready to receive them.” Crowley shrugged. “What would that matter to me? I won’t be there. Someone Falling now? How odd. Wonder who it is, bet it’s Gabriel, he’s deserving.” He sat, sinking in to his worn spot.  


Crowley’s former commander moved again, slowly padding towards the first table of books. Touching them, Crowley noted. With zzzzzzir’s human fingers as well as those damned flies. Dipping and diving and touching the books. He wrinkled his nose, thinking of how the sulfur scent could permeate those delicate pages. While gazing downwards at a particularly fine Second Folio, zzzzzzir sighed. Beelzebub then whispered, so softly no mortal could hear, in the voice of a hundred flies buzzing, “Crowley, we will treat him kindly, the Dark Lord himself szzzwearszzz it, I szzzwear it. Dagon will keep the peaczzze. Keep the otherszzz away, szzzhe will, no one will touch him but the Dark Lord and I. Even Haszzztur, Haszzztur will be kept away, pleaszzze don’t come and do whatever you would do.” Realization dawned on the Serpent of Eden as night fell in London Town.

No. 

No. 

No.

Zzzzzzir glanced again at the bottled water, then flinched and stepped backwards as Crowley rose and advanced. “We will reczzzzeive him with courteszzzy, and return him to you. Aszzz szzzoon as he reacheszzz the lake and the flame. Not a moment after. Even here, Crowley, we will bring him here…” The Grand Lord of Hell stopped short, as one cannot speak with a hand pressed around one’s throat whilst being lifted off their feet.

“No.

No.

No.

Not him. Not him.

It’s my fault, I did this.

He’s done silly things, such silly things, such tiny little things, only a little naughty at times, always helping the humans, always helping, that should make up for it. 

So soft, so delicate. 

No.

He thinks he isn’t beautiful, wouldn’t believe it if I said it aloud. 

Why?

It’s me. I tainted him. I only loved him, I didn’t act on it. I couldn’t.

Why?

I didn’t want this, can’t it be me? I’ve Fallen, I will do it again. 

He…

Please…”

Beelzebub had let zzzzzzirself out quietly just a moment ago, returning to zzzzzzir seat in the Underworld, just as Crowley crumpled to his knees. The demon lies on the floor in his own version of Hell. Love lies grieving on the small rug in the center of the only place he’s ever felt he belongs. Pain greater than any he’s ever felt, and yes, he fell from heaven, screeching through the vast darkness of space, touching the atmosphere and burning, burning, burning. This is the greatest pain. He can only whisper these words, softly, it is not a time for shouting and false bravado and threats. The bookshop burned once, returned by a well-meaning child to almost its original state. The demon burns in its center now, far from the help of that very human little one. His face, his collar, his shirt are drenched. There is no water from a fire brigade on which to place the blame this time. This wetness contains water and salt. Serpent eyes make tears, between their spectacle and cornea. It is a biological necessity.

“Did you let those angels do this? Gabriel? Sandalphon? Michael? They put him on trial because of me? There wasn’t a trial when I took his place there in the Hell Fire. 

Will they strip his Grace, toss him from Above, as You watch? 

Like You watched me Fall? 

God?

Lord?

Please, please.

Please.

Mother.

No.

Not him.

No.”

He only asked questions of Her. That’s why She damned him. He asks questions now, in this, the worst moment of his infinite existence. And She is listening. 

It began in a garden, this all-consuming love of his. A garden with an apple tree. “Crowley, I have a silly question” whispered the angel once, under another apple tree. He was sitting on a pale blue and buttercup yellow tartan blanket. “Don’t make fun.” Tadfield, Crowley had found, had the best gardens and apple trees. Perfect for lazy afternoon picnics. Probably the fault of a certain former Nephilim who was approaching his twelfth year. The demon lounged at Aziraphale’s side, lying on his red belly in the autumn sun, properly warm. “Yesssss, angel?” the great snake hissed. It was good to return to this form occasionally. For a start, he could get a proper stretch. It was also so very amusing to see the humans rush away in a fright from the bookshop. And, the angel didn’t seem to mind. Especially the bit about frightening would-be customers away from pawing his precious book hoard. He would only need to suggest in his gentle manner something along the vein of “Dear, let’s go to the coast, it would be lovely to get some fresh sea air” and Crowley would return to human form and start the Bentley’s engine by the time the angel had risen from his seat. 

“Crowley, if Heaven returns for me…” “They won’t, Angel, it will be my lot coming for me, not Heaven, not after that proper fright I gave them.” “Crowley, be serious,” said the sweet scented one, all vanilla and Earl Grey and pages from old books that day. “If they come, and something should happen, if I Fall…” The reptile raised its head. “If you Fall, Angel, they will anssswer to me.” “Crowley, dear, how you do go on. But, if I Fall…” Crowley had returned to human form in a trice, and grasped the angel’s tender hand. “If you Fall, which you won’t, I’ll catch you.” He remembered himself then, and lifted his damned hand away. No touching, it was his unspoken rule. The angel understood. No touching. None of his demonic taint would mar that ivory flesh. 

“You’ll catch me?” The angel had been radiant, almost glowing with a delight that grew by the second. He smiled the smile that was its own minor miracle. “That would be quite a sight, Crowley.” “Yes, Aziraphale. If you Fall, I will most definitely catch you. Not a single one of your pin feathers or tartan whatever you’re wearing at the time will touch the ground. All right? I promise. I swear it upon the sun and moon and stars themselves.” The angel had blushed and gazed downwards for a heartbeat. “All right, then, Crowley.” They had finished their wine, their small sandwiches. The little berry cakes Aziraphale was fond of nibbling with his afternoon tea of late. Crowley had remembered and packed them after a rapid dash to a nearby new bakery, to the angel’s utter delight. They then basked in the sun until it sank below the green grass field. Aziraphale had stood then, dusting crumbs from that velveteen waistcoat he hadn’t been without for over a hundred years. It was near to threadbare, but, well, the angel seemed not to mind. He gazed up at the tree, still with a few apples hanging low, ruby red and grass green mingled on their skins. He plucked two, holding one in each tantalizingly graceful hands. How many hours of his existence had Crowley contemplated holding those hands, pressing lips to tender flesh, tracing the azure lines that flowed just under the surface of the light skin with forefingers, with mouth? Aziraphale proffered an apple to the demon with a dazzling, wicked smile. “Could I tempt you?” “Angel!” spluttered Crowley, eyes growing wide, shocked at the feeling stirring just underneath his breast bone. Aziraphale had laughed heartily and returned to his seat. “This could be the thing that tips me over the edge, I have been bad before, but tempting a Demon? What ever would they say?” He winked. The angel really had winked at him, and had smiled again afterward. That sunlight smile. And this is how I die, thought Crowley. He’s being adorable and silly and dare I think flirtatious, and my heart will burst and I will die. He took one of the apples as the angel giggled. It was tart and sweet at the same time. Just like a certain angel. Sweet, tart, und utterly, astonishingly, heart achingly, beautiful. 

_“Arise.”_

That Voice. Why did it sound so sad? So benevolent? So gentle, so wise? So familiar? Like something he couldn’t remember, not a thing, really, but, a feeling. Light, inside him, bursting outwards. Warmth. Laughter? Joy? Joy, that was it. The Voice was Joy. And Light. And Love. And Comfort.

_“My Star, arise.”_

He couldn’t hear this Voice. Not this one. Someone spoke for this Voice. There had to be a conduit for this Voice. A haughty, arrogant, conceited, stuffed shirt of a conduit. This was the Voice of Beginnings, of Endings, of Pain, of Grace. This Voice creates, created, destroyed, destroys. It was certain, utter annihilation to hear this Voice. 

Yet, he heard Her. It was his Mother. His Creator. He had yearned for this Voice now, for untold ages. Even wreathed in flames, inhaling the rotted egg scent of the sulfur lake for the first time, flexing charred wings, he had ached for it. Ached for it when he first shrank in to a reptilian form. When he slithered in to Eden to whisper in the ear of a shy, sweet girl. When he crawled up a wall and announced, “That went down like a lead balloon.” Then, only moments later, that need had ceased to be. Only his angel’s presence had staunched the longing that was so like an raw open wound. 

_“I am here, Star. Oh, you call yourself Crowley now. I shall call you that. It is a fine name. Please, my Crowley, cease your tears. I shall help. I have heard you. Arise, and I shall tell you what to do.”_

“What to do?”

_“The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, your best friend, is Falling, my star. And, he expects you to catch him. You promised.”_

“How,” whispered Crowley, shakily, “how can I hear You again?” His eyes rose to the ceiling, knowing he would not, could not, see anything there. But, it felt right to do so. She was Above, after all.

_“You haven’t much time, so I wished to speak with you directly. You’ve always done so with me, even when you did not expect a response.”_

Crowley rose, still gazing upwards. “Why? Why him? Why did you let them do this?”

_“Little one, he will tell you these things, but you must be there. He should tell you these things. You did swear it, by the moon and stars we made together, so you must be there.”_

Crowley knew, from long-ago angelic experience, to listen to Mother. No questioning, just listen. Do what She is focused on, at this moment, right now, as She expects you to do. Obey. Time to converse, to question, to learn, to love Her? _After our work is done, darling Star of Mine. After our work is done._

_“Speak to me later, to your heart’s content. Shout, scream, weep, gnash your teeth, threaten, beg, whatever you wish. I will listen, as I always do. You must go, Crowley. Love will not wait.” ___

Crowley closed his eyes. He remembered the face of the being he truly worshipped. He would save him from any further agony, then shout at their Creator for causing something so precious pain.

“Lord, tell me what to do.”

_“Your Love falls even now, Crowley. He is thinking of you, such tender thoughts, he will tell you so many, many things when he sees you again. He regrets not saying these things. Go now, to the village where the End did not happen. Where you and the Principality stood against Heaven and Hell with that wonderful child and prevailed. There is a field where you once took an apple from his hand, and you made a promise. Go there. You will know what to do after.”_

__

Crowley gathered up his strength, and vanished.

It is a little known fact that some angels did not survive the first Fall. Stripped of their Grace, bodily thrown from heaven by one of their own kin, not hearing Her Voice… they willed themselves to die in that burning Lake. Crowley knows this. Crowley had tried to help, learning that of his many powers he retained, healing was not amongst them. He had tried to help, at least, to console, to be present as they passed from this existence. These few damned souls had went into nothingness, filled with dismay and terror, empty of light and hope. His angel would not be among their number. 

Crowley appeared in that blessed garden in tiny Tadfield, the apple tree at his back. It was as good a companion as he could hope for this night. He raised his eyes to a sky ablaze with stars, the Milky Way slashed across his field of vision, sparkling, twinkling, cold to the sight. He knew their true warmth, having held them in his arms as he set them in their places. Sirius, Betelgeuse, Vega. Capella, Alpha Centauri A and B. Pictor, Puppis, Pyxis. How he had watched in delight through the ages as the humans named them, studied them, sought to be among them. 

“Mother? Lord? I’m here. What do I do?” He gazed around, and a moment passed. The cold of mid-winter pressed against his frame. The silence was only broken by the rustle of the apple tree’s branches in the light breeze. “Of course.” No answer. He wasn’t expecting one, really. He waited, gazing upwards, facing the south. His watch, ostentatious symbol of luxury that it was, did provide the correct time, which was showing just before 3 a.m. The witching hour. Not too long until dawn. 

A bright light appeared as the watch turned the hour gauge to the numeral three. Directly beneath the southernmost stars of Cassiopeia. Just above Andromeda. A blazingly bright, brilliant light, shaded a soft blue. Crowley blinked and removed his glasses. Wearing them while alone, at night, such a strange habit, but he depended on their constant presence, a barrier between him and the world. All the world, excepting, of course, Aziraphale. The light was getting brighter? No. Closer. And coming fast. Then the wave hit him. An invisible wave, like a gust of wind from a spring storm, pushing him backwards, but only a step. The air, splitting, sprinting from the impossible thing rending it in twain. The massive boom as the sound barrier was broken followed soon after. It was his angel. Falling fast. Burning in the atmosphere as he had oh so long ago. 

“Think, you bloody idiot!” He slammed his palm into his forehead. “Think!” His mind was a whirl. He’s in pain, you infernal fool, the pressure from moving so fast, you damned idiot, he’s on fire, his wings, his poor soft wings, fire, damn, fire… Slow him down. Think of the crash later, slow him down now. Slow him down, stop him from hitting the ground and going Below. He will not touch the ground. He will not. Crowley raised his palms, facing the light, of course that light was Aziraphale, it was the finest shade of blue with streaks of purest gold, stunning and perfect. He closed his eyes, took a single breath, and PUSHED. 

Pushed with all that he was, pressed the air with his heart in his hands. He pushed. The air, breath and wind and gale and storm, it obeyed, not from fear of the raging demon, but from awe at the sheer insolence of one being thinking he could control them. All of the components that called themselves air were curious to see what would happen if they allowed it. The blue light was still growing larger, coming closer, but more slowly. Crowley pushed and PUSHED and pushed until his human body shook with exhaustion, but still, he pushed. Soft droplets of moisture touched his burning cheeks, his hair, his coat. Rain? There had been no clouds….was She helping, knowing of that fire that he would have to extinguish? He couldn’t think about Her now, he had to concentrate. And push.

As the light made its slow descent, Crowley started to discern a humanoid shape. Was Aziraphale Falling head first? It couldn’t be. Wings trailing behind him, arms to the side, yes, his eyes were closed, head first. His anger rose to the surface. They, those bastards, threw his angel head first? He would deal with them. He remembered their fear of the Fire. The Fire that lived within his very being, flickering at all times. They would learn this soon enough. Not yet, must press the air, slow him down. Push.  
Second after second, minute after minute, still Crowley pressed his hands towards the southern sky, towards his beautiful creations who twinkled above, not caring how their maker suffered below, pressing towards his love with his love, until Aziraphale was just a few meters away, then, he slowly stopped pressing the air. And reached with both arms.

The collision was not gentle, he knew it would not be. Crowley threw his arms around the Falling body, and held fast. They slammed, angel and demon, fire and pain, breath and life, love and love, backwards into the trunk of the apple tree.  
His breath returned in a gasp. He found himself sitting on raised roots and earth and the cold brown grass of mid-winter, back against the barren tree. The rain now fell in torrents, sizzling as it touched the flames about them. He looked downwards at Aziraphale, who, eyes closed, breathed as if sleeping. His left arm circled round the angel’s shoulders, while the right wrapped around his back, just below the coracoid and scapula of the angel’s right wing. He had caught Aziraphale with the angel’s face against his chest, this beautiful, ethereal life pressed against his demonic heart. Crowley began to weep in earnest. He cradled the head and shoulders, letting the wings slide to the side. They were smoldering, with small flares of fire still flickering as the water from above quenched the burning. “Angel? Angel? Wake up. Please wake up.” He pressed his face into ashen platinum curls. He circled his arms tighter, ever tighter, not forgetting he was, by nature, a constrictor, only wanting to hold his angel, finally, after millennia of longing. 

The sudden deafening silence that marked the rain’s sudden end caused him to look up. His eyes grew solidly golden, slit pupils spreading, preparing his vision if he should need to strike when they came closer. Gabriel stood not 10 meters away with his constant companion Sandalphon, sneering, violet eyes ablaze. Gabriel held both a sword and a look of utter contempt. “Demon, surrender the Fallen One. His punishment is not complete,” spoke Gabriel, with a quiet calm that belied his expression, “He must Fall into the pit and be received by Satan himself. All who have Fallen have gone through this process, as you should remember well.” Crowley hissed and clung tighter. Sandalphon pressed a hand against Gabriel’s sleeve. “I believe this is a case in need of a gentle touch, Gabriel.” The angel stepped forward, kneeling to Crowley’s eye level. “Demon, wouldn’t you like your pet simpleton to be a devil like you? You could go about together, doing idiotic things, thumbing your noses at our Maker, two rebels doing as you please.” 

Crowley controlled his urge to become the great serpent; he had something precious in his arms, so he could not release his hold. “I will end you, Scourge of Sodom and Grief of Gomorrah, slowly and painfully, if you take another step forward. I should end you for your gall at insulting him. All the abuses and dismissals and contempt you have both slung at this flawless being have earned you my scorn. Do not earn my wrath.”

“Ah, Sandalphon. You tried.” The Trumpeter of the Lord stepped forward, chuckling softly. Another step, then another. “I would say I did not want to do this, but I really, really want to do this. I want to hurt you, demon, and slice you in to tiny, tiny little bits and throw this laughing stock in to the Pit. Why? Because I put up with this fool for millennia, always so cowardly, going native, corrupting his heaven-given body, running from any and all fights, and who did he run to? You, the enemy. I will end you both and go home, away from this wretched place, and wait for our glorious battle to come, during which you two will not be able to interfere!” Gabriel raised the sword, which flickered to life with holy fire. 

Crowley answered with fire of his own. He had closed his eyes, and told the inferno waiting inside, always waiting, to awaken. Hell fire lit his very being, hair and head, neck and back, all areas of his body facing away from the unconscious Aziraphale. “Come closer, my dear brother Gabriel, come,” he hissed. “How I have missed you. Let us reunite after so many ages apart.” The fire licked up the apple tree’s trunk, and soon caught, the tongues of it hungrily devouring exposed branches and any potential for sweet-tart apples shared between lovers to come. Crowley would die, yes, but he would be certain these two would go with him. Aziraphale would be safe. It was all that mattered now.

He loosened his hold on his angel, softly brushing his fingers against a cheek. So lovely. This would be the image in his mind as he expired, soft cream skin and a pale shock of curls. As he prepared to lay Aziraphale’s upper body on the ground, the scent of ozone permeated the air as lightning rent the ground between he and Gabriel. From the flash which paused and crackled, impossibly lighting the surrounding fields and burning tree, a humanoid shape stepped. He raised one hand, seeming to call for attention. “I bring Word from the Almighty.” 

Gabriel and Sandalphon irresistibly dropped to their knees, heads bowed. The sword clattered to the ground, having ceased its burning as the entity spoke that first word. “Your Eminence!” squeaked Sandalphon, grasping for Gabriel’s arm again. The Metatron turned towards them, eyes aglow with knowledge and power and Grace itself. “The Almighty commands you both return to Heaven. She will have words with you later.” Sandalphon nodded, but Gabriel stood quickly, still averting his eyes. “Your Eminence, this Fallen One’s punishment…” The Metatron held up a hand, silencing him. “Gabriel, return now. All will be revealed, in Her time.” Gabriel nodded, and with a final glare towards Crowley, grabbed the outstretched hand of his companion, and flew upwards, streaks of blinding white light as they went. 

The Metatron turned his face towards Crowley and the softly breathing Aziraphale. “Former Demon Crowley, the Almighty wishes to commend your quick thinking in stopping the Principality’s descent.” He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with his task, not wishing to deign politeness towards one such as Crowley. He nodded towards the angel in Crowley’s arms. “Tend him well, he will survive. He did not reach Perdition, nor the Nine Circles. He has not been touched by the fires of Hell. He is not in thrall of the Morning Star. He will awaken soon.” Crowley nodded, unable to speak from the sudden loss of his rage and the heat of the burning flame, now dowsed, that had erupted from his core. Even the tree and field behind him had ceased burning. He returned his face to the sweet softness of Aziraphale’s hair and closed his arms around the sleeping frame once again. The Metatron, Voice of the Most High, muttered, “I’ve done as You asked, of course, though I do not understand.” When Crowley next looked up, he and Aziraphale were alone.

His angel would be angry. He would be sent away. He’d never have a chance again to wonder at this softness, marvel at his gentle beauty. He decided to fill these final moments gazing down at Aziraphale’s sleeping face. “I know you’ll hate me soon enough, it’s my fault this happened,” tears slid down his cheeks, falling to the angel’s shoulder, “but I love you. I’ve loved you since Eden, since you said you gave away that stupid, stupid sword to that lovely girl so she could be warm and safe with the tiny life growing in her belly. I loved you more and more at the Ark, at Golgotha, in Rome where we ate oysters and drank sour red wine until dawn, in your stupid shiny armor in Camelot. At The Globe, my heart almost burst at your tiny smile when I promised that make that maudlin dirge popular. I loved you even more than I thought my heart and mind could contain in the Bastille where I tried to be collected and dashing and heroic, but felt a love-sickened fool when you smiled at me and said you had only wanted crêpes. How I slept for years after you stormed away in St. James, dreaming of you the whole while. That befuddled look on your face in that bombed church…how you dismissed me when you gave me the holy water….”the tears came fast and thick then. “Then, we were together, raising Warlock, I’d watch you out in the garden while you spoke to him, but you never seemed to notice me, and I loved you so fiercely. Being at your side when the world was ending, thinking I was going to die, but so, so happy it was with you, then watching Hastur strike you, and knowing you had gone into Hell for me…I love you with all my damned soul, and if you’d allow, I will spend the rest of eternity making up for this.” The words had come in a blur, but, yes, they had been said. He choked back a sob, and because he might never get the chance again, pressed his lips to the forehead of his beloved. “I can’t believe you Fell. You Fell.” He wept without abandon then.

“Crowley,” said a soft, hoarse voice. “Crowley, dear, I did NOT Fall. Not in the traditional sense.” Crowley gasped and stared downwards as Aziraphale’s eyes opened. “I Jumped.”

“Wha…wha…what?” “I jumped dear,” Aziraphale glanced about, with his eyes the color of oceans in storm, “allow me to sit upright, please?” Crowley released his grip as if stung, and Aziraphale slowly sat up, rolling his shoulders and folding his wings back to the other plane, still white, but covered in ashes. Crowley realized he was not wearing his overcoat, his waistcoat, his silly old-fashioned fob chain. Only his palest blue shirt, collar open, no tartan at his throat to be seen? Did they burn away? Aziraphale lolled his head side to side, producing a deafening POP. “Ahhhh, that’s better, shouldn’t have gone face first. I was a bit eager to be away, after Gabriel and Michael were all goading and gleeful, all the others had the decency to look ashamed after the Metatron pronounced I was to Fall.” He turned to face Crowley, who was desperately trying to wipe his running eyes and nose with his sleeve. “Really dear,” Aziraphale made an ornate embroidered handkerchief appear and set about dabbing at Crowley’s face. Did, did he miracle it? “Wha…?” Crowley stuttered again. “Oh, Crowley, yes, the Metatron did pass on from the Almighty that you would feel guilty about my Falling, and I was to first tell you, it wasn’t you, dearest. I Fell for, well, for lying. About the sword. Turns out I told the first lie. The first one, can you imagine it? She asked me directly, and I’ve been lying about it ever since. Well, except to you. You knew.” He gazed downwards for a heartbeat before speaking again in a delighted rapid pitter-patter pace.  
“Crowley, tell me, do I have eyes like yours? I told them I wanted eyes like yours.” He looked directly at Crowley, who stuttered, “No, no, nuhno, um, Angel, they’re the same.” “Hmmm, a pity. Your eyes are so distinct and lovely, I was always envious…. And, you’ll need to call me something different. I’m no angel. Not anymore.” He brushed ashes off his sleeves. “I’ll miss that waistcoat. I took it off, drag you see, that velveteen would burn too hotly.” He smiled softly. “The Metatron was very kind about it all, said the Almighty felt badly, but the others were angry at my being excused from punishment, and after they found out about our, well, fraternizing and helping young Adam, well….” he shrugged. “She had no choice, really.”

Crowley still felt as if his brain were buzzing with all the flies at Beelzebub’s disposal. “Azira…” It was then his angel turned, beaming, and pressed their lips together. Briefly, just for the space of two heartbeats, they touched. Crowley felt he knew the mysteries of the universe, why God Herself had created him, why he Fell, why humankind was so very daft and why he had waited six millennia for this moment. He knew he must look as dazed as he felt when Aziraphale laughed and pressed his hands against Crowley’s cheeks. “Darling, you caught me. As you swore. You saved me from the flame.” More kisses, soft and quick, all over his forehead, nose, chin, lips. This was agony, the sweetest agony. How each place gently ached after the touch ended. This ache, this true fire, this would surely end him. And he would go happily. “I love you, you wily serpent, though I could never express how much in the tongues of gods or men,” he leaned his face forward, touching his forehead to Crowley’s. “And I certainly haven’t realized it as long as you have, that She made us for one another, but thank you for saying it so beautifully just now.” With another soft press of the lips, he sat up and breathed, “But now, I have eternity to make up for it.” He was still Aziraphale, no changed name, no change in personality, no change in the beatific smile that now shone upon Crowley. “Hmmm, I wonder if I feel the cold more keenly now, but let’s go home and continue this conversation. I could do with a cuppa and some dry clothes.” “Home?” whispered the besotted fool formerly known as Crowley. “Yes, dearest, home, the bookshop. We’ll light the fire and warm up and continue this,” another brush of their lips. Aziraphale then, oh, help him Lord, this ache in his chest, how keenly he felt it, Aziraphale then wrapped his arms around the former demon and squeezed. Crowley, still hopelessly and irretrievably lost, nodded his assent before pressing his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder, and they disappeared.

It didn’t begin and end with a garden. Gardens and apple trees, you see, are only for beginnings. Sometimes, you get several chances at beginning, and there is no end.

Do please visit me on [Tumblr. ](https://pictsies-crivens.tumblr.com/) As I write more, I'll be posting it there first.


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